


Silence

by Stressed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stressed/pseuds/Stressed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't surprised by anything, not after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The rain drips past the windows of 221B, and John appreciates the sound. It’s melodic, consistent; the exact opposite of the noise that used to emanate from his temperamental flat mate. Sometimes he thinks that time moves like the droplets; slowly, then all at once, rushing by only to get caught on an insignificant obstacle like a windowpane or the roof of St Barts. John can focus on the rain, the way it washes the grimy streets of London in a futile attempt to produce something clean for the next day, how it makes everything smell that little bit more alive. He has to concentrate to notice these things now, though; he no longer revels in the smell of coffee in the morning, or the comforting whistle of the kettle. Why should he? His best friend had left him to an existence of weary days in clinic and dreary evenings in the dark.

It’s been three years, and yet John is still stuck in the same place as before.

He knows that, once upon a time, he would have basked in any silence afforded to him by Sherlock’s absence. He would spend evenings alone with a DVD and a beer, enjoying the storyline without having to pay attention, not needing to justify his choice to Sherlock. He has to pay attention now- there won’t be any snarky remarks from a corner unravelling the plot in seconds, not anymore. So nowadays evenings are for reading, for trying to keep on top of the medical knowledge he no longer feels the need to care about or enjoy. Clinics don’t provide adrenaline, not even past flu season. He gets hypochondriacs , sick note seekers,  and small children with so called ‘mysterious rashes’ that are so obviously chickenpox he can’t help but channel Sherlock with a disapproving look. The rush of gunshots and the taint they left on John have faded to a small, aching scar on his left shoulder. His hands don’t shake, but only because self-control seems to be all he has left. His limp, cured by Sherlock, returned full force in the months after It happened, but he’s so used to it by now the idea of being any other way is as odd as his gait.

As he sits in his armchair with a cup of tea, he’s surprised by how mundane his life seems to have become. He should have expected it really; without Sherlock, his life would have been like this anyway: he would have survived the PTSD (barely), soldiered on, squared his shoulders and attempted a normal life. He’s not surprised that he’s forty and living alone, not shocked to learn that he doesn’t feel his veins race with excitement anymore.

 Sherlock’s sofa is as the man himself left it, the blankets untidy and a handful of change rattling around between the seats. The same cannot be said for the flat as a whole, John having tidied Sherlock’s papers into tidy piles and put them back into his room, careful not to mess up any indexes he’s aware of. The experiments left behind have been catalogued, John researching to make sure he recorded every possible detail about the samples so that should he ever discover their purpose, the specimens would not be in vain. He keeps the flat clean, organised. Mrs Hudson has not uttered ‘Not your housekeeper!’ in months.

John has only been into Sherlock’s bedroom twice since the fall. The first time was pure indulgence, though it didn’t carry any of the expected relief or acceptance he’d been hoping for. It was almost torturous to stand in the doorway, looking at where Sherlock had split acid on the carpet and the untidy stack of books on his bedside table, knowing that he would never be able to shout at Sherlock again, that the man would never get to finish his literature. The second time, John was wise to the effect the room had on him and didn’t linger. He just deposited the books and papers from the living room in one corner, allowed himself one full glance at the rest of Sherlock’s room, and left.

It was getting late, and John was getting ready to go up to bed. He had put his mug in the sink after its rinse, organised his papers so that he could continue reading about quadruple helixes tomorrow, and slumped. He knew he shouldn’t, that it was a bad habit his therapist would tut at, but he couldn’t help grimacing as he put the second mug in the sink, empty. It was a habit, after all, to make his tea strong, and then make an extra mug of overly sweet, milky crap that he ended up drinking because no one else was bloody going to.

He touched his fingertips to Sherlock’s bedroom door as he passed, for a second comforted, as if he could pretend the man was just behind the door, frenzy limited to his mind palace and therefore silent to John.

* * *

 

The next day, John promises himself. It’s been three years since Sherlock fell; today, John is going to call someone, anyone, and go out. He needs to move on, because just _functioning_   isn’t enough. He needs to live again, to break out of the monotony of sleeping, eating, diagnosing, reading, and sleeping. His mind turns back to Sherlock, as it often does, heart aching because it mattered, Sherlock mattered, and he needs to live a life worthy of having had Sherlock Holmes in it. He treads that path again, the ‘For goodness sakes Watson, you’re still going, do a little better!’ and he decides to trust himself to do just that. Again. Three years has to be easier to cope with than two, surely? A sudden surge of motivation has John making promises he knows he can’t keep, but he’s too damn stubborn to break them today. Today, today he’s going to be better.

He sets off for the clinic in plenty of time, walking unevenly along a winding route that takes him far, far away from anywhere with significance. It’s the same route he’s been using since Sarah first allowed him back at the practice, and it’s been so long now that every building along the way has blurred into an indistinct mess and he no longer concentrates as he walks. He keeps his head down, drawing his coat tighter around him and not meeting anyone’s eyes.

 As he paces steadily into the clinic, he smiles at Sarah, and decides that it wasn’t too bad. Sarah looks shocked, but she covers it quickly, returning a soft, wary smile of her own.

‘Good morning, John. You look better today,’ Sarah calls, emboldened by the fact John is maintaining eye contact, something he doesn’t normally manage.

 ‘Yeah. Decided I’ve got to start doing something with what I’ve got, y’know?’ John surprises himself by revealing it.

Sarah beckons him into her office, surprised by the new set in his shoulders. He looks brighter almost, but the bags under his eyes indicate he hasn’t slept in a couple of nights and is running on some weird kind of rush. Sarah is well aware of yesterday’s significance, and can’t help but hope that John has gained some kind of closure from marking another year past. She’d been horrified when she’d heard; trying to quash the smarmy little voice inside her that had always told her Sherlock was no good. Sarah had channelled her anger into trying to protect John, holding onto his shifts while he mourned and making sure he had nothing too strenuous to deal with when he finally returned.

‘So, Sarah, what’s the matter?’ John is as polite as ever, though the perpetual spark in his eyes has dimmed somewhat.

‘I guess I just wanted to see how you were, John. You’ve been putting in so many hours here but we hardly see you leave the room, and I know you haven’t been seeing your friends because they started calling me to check up on you!’ The barely disguised pity in her eyes is nothing new to John, but today he can’t take it.

‘I’m starting fresh. Don’t worry about it. Who is it, Greg? Molly?’ Sarah nods twice, and John runs a hand through his sandy hair, raising his chin in defiance. ‘I’ll get around to it. Now Sarah, if you don’t mind my first appointment is in ten minutes.’ John smiles, and reaches for the door. They haven’t sat down- John knows with personal conversations like this it’s best to be able to make a quick exit. He walks over to the main desk and Sarah sees him chat to the receptionist, but today it does look like he’s trying to make more of an effort, smiling in a few places and lingering a little longer than normal to be friendly. She would be relieved, but he looks so gaunt and it doesn’t look right on him, making him look much older than his years. Still, he’s making more of an effort, and for that she’s thankful. He’s just lucky the staff had liked him so much _before_ that they’d forgiven him for his distance _after_.

John works hard, making more of an effort to connect with his patients, smiling and just generally being more present. He notices that he doesn’t have to work so hard if he’s open, that the patients seem to respond more to a warm demeanour than a polite interest. It makes him feel better, like he’s doing the right thing, and the glow of being a better doctor is almost worth the effort it’s costing him to keep his attention on the people. He remembers how easy it used to be to have a bit of banter with his patients, to be good old Dr. Watson with a repertoire and reputation for being a good guy. It takes more effort, but, once he’s finished, he’s feeling slightly more optimistic. He’s still frustrated, but he feels like he’s set himself back on the right track. He contemplates calling Molly, remembering his earlier promise to Sarah, but instead sends off a quick text, not so sure he’s ready for a direct conversation. It is, after all, only his first day of actively trying to move on.

‘Sorry I’ve been a bit crap recently Molly. Can I make it up to you? Coffee, sometime? –JW’

He stuffs the little twinge further into the clutter of his mind, ever aware of how the ‘-JW’ originated, but allows the corners of his mouth to turn up in fond remembrance of the many times Sherlock had moaned at him for not making it clear that it was him texting. ‘No point in searching to see who sent it when you could just as easily sign it, John!’ he’d say. More likely ‘No point looking myself John, when you could do the work for me!’.  He continues on, repeating to himself that he just has to keep going, be better, more human. He focuses on his surroundings, trying to pull himself out of the mental hole he seems to automatically retreat into.

The wind is cold, biting at John’s face and causing the strangers on the street to duck their heads as they pass him on the pavement. He dodges, once, twice as the crowds rush at him, but he’s not willing to duck into a tube station unless he really has to. He’d rather brave the throng out in the open nowadays, be able to see the blank grey sky and smell something other than hot, dirty air in a cramped carriage. It’s a long walk, but hopefully the exercise will eventually have the same effect as the chases he so desperately craves, and even-up his limp. He knows it’s psychosomatic, but that doesn’t make it imaginary. Knowing doesn’t stop the pain. The pavement slabs are covered in gum like some bizarre mosaic, but John is infinitely grateful that this city, his city, is so large that he can see these pavements every day without having to go anywhere near the ones that _he_ fell on. As he turns the corner on to Baker Street, he can’t help but feel a small bubble of hope build up in his chest, grateful that today will be the first day of many that he actually hasn’t minded getting out of bed to tend to minor scrapes and bruises.

 

Of course, that all changes when he sees the unmistakeable profile of the man hunched on his doorstep.

 ‘Sherlock.’


	2. Chapter 2

‘John.’

It’s a weary sigh, uttered by a weary man as John pushes past him to the door. Sherlock watches as John stares resolutely at the keyhole, his wrist flicking the key over in the lock then pushing the door inwards with a little more force than strictly necessary. He’s surprised – he expects more from his doctor. A punch perhaps… or yelling. He’d even entertained a fierce hug or (admittedly unlikely) a faint. He didn’t expect this: This complete detachment and lack of anything even approaching an interesting reaction. His John Watson was a soldier with his heart on his sleeve; calm and deadly only in the most dangerous of situations, not a man for the silent treatment, or whatever it is he’s doing now.

Regardless, John has left the door open, so Sherlock traipses up the seventeen steps to 221B and follows John in, stopping only to check the door is shut securely and that Mrs Hudson isn’t around. When he makes it to the door of the flat, he’s shocked to see how little the flat has changed. Perhaps it’s cleaner than when he left.

He notes his absence (papers, experiments, coat, the skull), yet his blankets remain undisturbed, and how the room seems to have become John. The same two mugs sit in the sink. There’s no trace of anyone else having been here and only the wear pattern of John’s armchair gives away that anyone has lived here at all in the years since.

Sherlock takes a moment to look John over as he stands at the sink. His shoulders are slumped into the cupboards, making him seem much smaller than Sherlock ever remembered. Sandy hair is less golden and more greying, now. His clothes hang off him awkwardly even though his belt is as tight as possible. His doctor looks tired and worn, and Sherlock recognises that John is still wearing the same garments as he did when Sherlock was still around; he hasn’t been shopping, then. He tries to deduce, quickly, then realises that without even acknowledging it he’s worked out that John has started going to a gym to work out his pain, instead of drowning it in a bottle like Harry. She must have fallen off the wagon then, as he can’t see any empty bottles out by the recycling and John tends not to keep any around if he’s more aware of his family’s predispositions.

His mind flicks back to what Mycroft had told him last night, and he quickly forces it back to the matter at hand- John is here, and whatever his brother had to say about him can be filed and retrieved later, when John himself isn’t around.

 ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No.’ John turns. ‘No, you don’t bloody well get to be _sorry,_ Sherlock. You made me watch as you jumped. Jumped. Off a building. Off a fucking tall building. And you expect to come back into my life with a “sorry”? Three years, Sherlock! Three years yesterday! And yet you swan back in here as if nothing’s happened, as if nothing has changed? I should punch you. No, better yet, I should call Lestrade and he can punch you, and then arrest you.’  John’s voice is level, even and lethal. His eyes are blazing, but his hands remain steady, bunched into fists at his side. Sherlock can see the tension coiling in John’s arms, his shirt much too baggy over what appears to now be lean muscle and sinew.

‘Lestrade knows. Mycroft will have undoubtedly told him. I’m surprised the two of them managed to keep it from you for this long.’ Sherlock’s reply is just as measured, cool, but as soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets it. He sees John’s eyes tighten, his face grow ashen, and comes to his conclusion the second John opens his mouth, except this time what spills forth is not controlled- it’s pure white hot rage, the likes of which Sherlock has never seen on John.

‘Your brother and Greg knew. They knew. Oh, of course they knew, leaving poor little Johnny out in the cold. No wonder they looked so bloody sympathetic all the time! Knew my supposed best friend was off gallivanting around while I was here playing house and trying to hold myself together! Bloody brilliant!’ John hisses, whipping around in a tight circle and storming up to his room.

 

Sherlock takes no satisfaction in John’s cane as it drops to the floor, its owner far too steady on his feet.

* * *

 

He decides to lie on the couch, content just to try and take Baker Street in and regroup in his mind palace. His thoughts seem to be ricocheting around, defying his attempts to grasp them firmly and banish them to some far off region of his brain. He’s restless, and it feels like his skin is crawling, like every nerve in his body is firing in a discombobulated mess just to annoy him. He’s irritable and fidgety, fingers tapping and fiddling whilst his toes clench and unfurl sporadically. He’s clenching his jaw, feeling like he’s being tickled ever so gently, hatefully, from the inside out except it makes him want to move, to burn off this excess energy and calm his brain. There’s simultaneously too much data from his body and too little from his surroundings. His body’s betraying him. It’s only meant to be there as transport, and it hurts.

 It’s been a long time since his mind has been this cluttered, and he can only attribute it to the sudden influx of sentiment that seems to have attached itself to Baker Street, to John, like some clingy child desperate for attention he’s unwilling to give. He covers his eyes with his forearms, reminding him for the millionth time that the hoodie he’s wearing is far too short and has ridden up to his elbows, again. He tries to run his hand through his hair and is frustrated; whilst still curly, it’s too short and parted wrong and greasy and just wrong, wrong, _wrong_. How is he supposed to concentrate when even his body won’t obey his wishes? He can’t even pretend to be pulling the thoughts out by his hair!

 

He’s itching to go back to normal, to run after criminals with John at his side, to experiment and to insult Mycroft, and play his violin and to correct John’s blog and to just… be. He wants to feel alive again, wants to allow himself to replace the dull ache that reminded him every time that he couldn’t go home, not yet, with the rush of actually being home.

 

* * *

 

It’s when he finally starts sorting through his mental debris, that he hears the gasp. It’s soft, clearly not meant to be heard, yet Sherlock can’t help but open his eyes. John’s staring at the strip of skin still exposed by the too short hoodie, and Sherlock realises all too late he’s given himself away, that John is going to see, that John is going to care.

‘It’s nothing, John. Go get your tea.’ Sherlock twists, pulling the hem down and turning in towards the cushions, but stops when he feels a broad palm on his shoulder. Tentative, John stops him, and Sherlock sees the set in John’s eyes.

‘Bathroom. Now. Shirt off. I’ll go get the kit.’ John sounds aged, tired, and the bitterness bleeds into his voice as he goes to rummage in the kitchen. But then again, he’s no longer hissing.

Sherlock pushes himself out of his seat and walks to the bathroom, plonking himself on the edge of the bath and throwing his jumper and shirt into the tub in one graceful swoop. It’s the same procedure as a hundred times before, coming home with a new wound and having John fix it up for him, except this time John won’t be the same. He almost feels self-conscious, and then remembers what all this has been for and draws himself up, almost proud of the story written across his torso.

John strides in, chair in one hand and first aid kit in the other. He’s rolled his sleeves up, revealing the army tan lines that have yet to fade, and the watch he was left by his father. Sherlock can no longer read John closely enough to work out if it’s a new habit of his to wear the watch, or some other sentiment; he’s slightly disgruntled that for all his deductive capabilities and how hard he’s pushed his mind, he can’t read the one person that matters.

John’s face is curiously blank, and he is studiously keeping his face turned away from Sherlock as if his eyes will betray something.  He places the chair next to Sherlock, opens the medical kit, then looks up, with a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock’s chest is a mess, a mottled abstract of open cuts, scars and bruises of varying colours and shapes. Sherlock watches as the shock in John’s eyes transitions into grief, then shuttered up behind steely resolve as professional, caring Dr. Watson appears and kind, lovely John fades.

‘Explain.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Beni :)


	3. Chapter 3

 

John feels like he’s been picked up and thrown onto some fairground ride he has no desire to be anywhere near. He’s no longer sure of his life, of his feelings, of anything. Sat in front of him is a man who he begged not to be dead, and yet he doesn’t recognise anything. Sherlock’s hair is a light blonde, pushed over to the left and only slightly curly, and John wonders if he’s been the victim of particularly cruel trick because this man just doesn’t _look_ like his best friend. He shakes his head, disgusted that all he can think about is himself and something as trivial as Sherlock’s hair, when the chest in front of him is criss-crossed in an ugly lattice of scars. Some of the wounds look to be those done with a particularly serrated blade, but John doesn’t allow himself to wince; he aims for empathy, not sympathy. Now is not the time. He presses the pads of his fingertips gently along the edges of the tears, probing slightly for any irregularities he may have to stitch. Then, mercifully, Sherlock speaks. John can focus on the smooth cadence of the familiar baritone, and let his hands and eyes treat Sherlock without having to try and rationalise the sheer amount of pain Sherlock must be in.

‘Moriarty.  He was on the rooftop that day. Shot himself. Not before… not before.’ Sherlock pauses, unsure of what to say. The man seems slightly wild, as if he’s forgotten how to speak rationally and explain himself clearly. John pushes it aside. ‘John, you must realise I didn’t want to hurt you. I couldn’t… as horrible as what I did was, it was better than the alternative. Moriarty had snipers on you. You, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade- told me so gleefully, you remember how theatrical the man was, then shot himself. I couldn’t call them off, and he left me with one option. One call off code.’

‘You had to fall.’ John’s voice is stiff, charged with something Sherlock doesn’t want to identify.

‘I had to _jump._ My suicide was the final act; he knew that he had won because he knew that if I didn’t jump, I’d have lost. I lost either way, John, but I lost the least this way. You… you had to be my final phone call, because _you_ had to believe me. Who better to confirm my death than the very man who knew me best? Who better than a doctor that can recognise death, recognise crime instantly? You had to believe me.’ The words fall rapidly from his mouth, as if as soon as they’re formed he can no longer stand their taste.

Sherlock continues on, explaining every facet of the fall. He’s staring at John but his eyes are flickering rapidly all over his face, cataloguing every change, any reaction that he can use to make the truth as clear as possible but minimise the damage.

John’s all too aware that he needs to be a professional here, make sure Sherlock is safe and not in pain, because he can see from the silvery web of scars that Sherlock has been in danger, and recently. He shoves his feelings aside, barricading the hurt deep down inside, but even then he can’t stop the barely imperceptible wince of Molly’s involvement being caught by Sherlock’s eyes. He refocuses on the pale expanse of skin beneath his fingertips, the steady rhythm of his stitches a familiar anchor in this unwelcome situation. Right now he has to draw on all of his soldier reserves, on every bit of dettachment he possibly can; if he acknowledges the man under his fingertips is his best friend, the job will not be done properly. He hates this. Hates that his best friend seems unrecognisable.

 Sherlock’s chest is broad, his collarbones, shoulders and ribs all prominent -making John’s job that little bit more difficult, and John simultaneously wishes this were the first and last time he’d ever have to see the brilliant man in such a state of undress. How many times had Sherlock sat on that seat and John thanked his lucky stars the man was still alive to sit there? It doesn't bear thinking about now, especially as John reaches a particularly large mark on Sherlock's stomach. The lines of scar tissue are rigid to touch, and even being as gentle as possible Sherlock still flinches when John moves onto the next cut. John is working on him for what seems like an age, tying neat stitches in tidy rows. He refuses to count how many wounds he’s touched, how many more he has to sort, but he can’t deny how many dressings he’s applied to purple skin and bloodied abrasions.

He cleans each wound methodically, rubbing off layers of dirt with calloused thumbs and a soft sponge in smooth, circular motions. There’s a deep cut on Sherlock’s left bicep that will probably need a larger dressing, and John adds it to the list of things he needs to pick up at the surgery tomorrow. Tetanus shot, dressings, some kind of painkiller strong enough to soothe Sherlock without sending him spiralling… antibiotics. Definitely antibiotics.

‘Okay. Okay. I’m done, Sherlock.’ He places his palm on Sherlock’s shoulder, applying the last piece of gauze to a deep and narrow gash, silently thanking whichever deity that he can fix this. That Sherlock will heal. That maybe, just maybe, he might be able to forgive him.

He’s still angry, he can feel the torment and pain and hatred swirling in a toxic mess somewhere in his gut, but he is thankful. Sherlock is home, and, although his world has been tipped once again, he can’t help but feel like this time he might be able to rebound into some semblance of a normal life. No, not a normal life – an _interesting_ life.

He steps back, watching as Sherlock’s gaze softens and the blue eyes, previously trained on his face, fall to his hands. Sherlock is finally silent.

‘I’m still upset, Sherlock. I’m sorry you had to do that, sorry you couldn’t come home. But I’m still pissed at you for involving everyone but me, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to think you a heartless bastard for a little while, but… I’m glad you’re home.’ With that, John turns on his heel, pulls his medical bag up and leaves.

* * *

 

Sherlock sits for a while on the edge of the bath, staring at the swirled patterns on the floor. The jitters of earlier are now confined solely to his mind. He can’t get over how John’s hands were so warm against his skin, but the words, the tirade John released, was anything but. It was cold, detached- meaning more venomous and cutting than Sherlock would have thought capable from such harmless phrases.

He’d relied on John forgiving him after he knew what had happened- surely he should be forgiven? He’d done it for John, after all. Admittedly three people’s lives had hung in the balance that day, but he knew, Moriarty knew, the heart that was being burnt there was John. Not Mrs Hudson, not Lestrade- John was the one who had patched up his bruises, who had pushed him to solve cases and sparked brilliance more often than not. John was the reliable one, the one variable in his life he could assume constant.

This sudden tilt in behaviour was not accounted for.

He wanted to be able to tell John of the deductions he’d made whilst dismantling Moriarty’s web. He wanted to hear those familiar exclamations of ‘Brilliant! Amazing!’ that were such a balm to his ears, temporarily easing the flurries of his constantly moving mind. He wanted John, not Dr or Captain Watson. He just wanted John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks to Beni, and everyone who as read this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for references to suicide.

The next day, John is surprised to find his eccentric flatmate still passed out on the couch when he leaves for work. John drapes a spare blanket over the mans’ bony shoulders, not quite sure what the etiquette is for ‘trying to look after your far too thin best friend but still convey you’re resolutely pissed’. He settles for not making Sherlock a cup of tea, and not being as quiet as he could be- after all, John still has a couple of years of late night violin to make up for. He debates leaving a note; but what could he say that he hasn’t already said? The things he wants to say haven’t formed themselves into coherent, elegant thoughts worthy of spilling just yet. He doesn’t want to be passive aggressive, but one look at the passed out detective and his resolve shatters. Sherlock is curled up tightly, his face troubled and his limbs still shaking almost imperceptibly as he sleeps. The whole situation is messed up; first of all his flatmate is right there, all six feet of him spread out and slumbering, when he should be six feet under, and second of all, the thing John disbelieves most, is that said flatmate is still there! John had expected him to be jumping at the bit, trying to push his way into cases and scare the hell out of whichever Yarders he hadn’t already seen.

John suppresses a flash of anger at that thought; he’s still bitter that apparently, he was one of the last to know. He feels slightly empty this morning, so unused to not having that heavy sadness resting on his gut. The hole that the grief left just isn’t filled with anger; that would be too dishonest for the depth that was the distinct lack of Sherlock. Still, John carries on pottering around the flat, looking for reasons to stay just that little bit longer before setting off to work. He knows as soon as he reaches the street, the illusion will shatter and he’ll have to call Sherlock, or worse, race back and check that he’s still there. He settles for texting Sarah to ask if he can only work half a shift, promising he’ll explain why later. How he’s going to explain the return of his dead friend without being accused of taking a hallucinogenic, he has no idea.

* * *

 

When Sherlock wakes, it is to a cold, empty flat. The sunlight is beaming weakly through the windows, but it does little to make the room seem any friendlier. It’s odd; Sherlock feels like a stranger in his own home without his skull, or better, John, to talk to. He’d fallen asleep on the couch last night, staring at the steps that led to John’s room in the vain hope the man would come back down and he could try again to explain. He had tried, he really had; it wasn’t his fault John was so frustratingly blinded by sentiment. It shouldn’t have mattered that Lestrade and Molly had known first; it was John he had come back to, John he had jumped for.

Nevertheless, he’s slightly warmed by the fact he’s covered by a blanket he knows he didn’t put there. For one, it smells like John, and for the second he definitely hadn’t intended to fall asleep on a lumpy sofa when he had a perfectly good, hardly used bed anyway. Hell, he hadn’t even intended to sleep! He’d wanted to stay, and catalogue, and find his things.

Sherlock untangles himself from the blanket, and sets out on his next task; John. He needs to find a way to make this better, to get everything back to normal- else what’s the point in having ruined the delicate equilibrium in the first place? His first port of call is his room, and what he sees there shocks him more than any change he’s seen so far.

It’s like a shrine. It’s completely and utterly organised. Sherlock has never seen such painstaking attention to detail; it’s like John had seen into his mind palace and worked out where everything had needed to be in his room in order for Sherlock to appreciate it on his return. His piles are filed in an index he devised but had no idea John even knew about, let alone knew how to use; his clothes are neatly hung and have clearly been dry cleaned by the only company Sherlock has ever trusted with his shirts. The skull is even on his bedside table; as if John knew Sherlock would need the company. Sherlock is in awe, and his respect is only deepened when he sees the meticulous detail John has gone into trying to record his final experiments for him. John’s conclusions aren’t correct, but that’s to be expected, really.

Sherlock perches on the end of the bed, his head placed on the tent of his long, thin fingers. John had done all this for him. John, patient, caring John, had believed in him long enough to maintain his things and even try and continue his work for him. His observations on the liver experiment had been wrong, completely wrong, but he’d tried. He’d had some sliver of hope that had prompted him to try. Sherlock’s mind flicks back to what Mycroft had said yesterday, and he _knows._

His next task is to talk to Mycroft then. Inevitable, but it must be done; his insufferable brother is holding the paperwork that will finally lay the fraudulent claims to bed. Confused, Sherlock also realises he’s going to have to ask about what John has been up to. The man has clearly not coped in the way Sherlock had expected, but then again, John really is unpredictable at the worst moments. He’d expected the doctor to have grieved for a little while, but eventually have settled down with a wife and a few children; clearly, his expectations needed more work.

Barely an hour later, and Sherlock is swinging around in a particularly decadent, plush chair in Mycroft’s office. The room itself hasn’t changed, but the elder brother sat behind the desk has; his diet had failed a few weeks after his brothers’ funeral and has only recently gotten back on track when said brother had popped up in Iran, acerbic as ever. Mycroft is looking at him with a vaguely condescending air, as if knowing Sherlock is safe is enough to set him back on the track of long suffering eldest instead of worried, overbearing family.

‘And so how did the good doctor take your return, Sherlock?’

‘Better than expected, although I couldn’t have predicted his response. It seems he is, once again, the exception to the rule.’ Sherlock replies in a bored drawl, though his knuckles have gone white, clenched on the arms of the chair.

‘Forgiven you, has he? After three years of torment? This is the same doctor who took to calling me ‘The Iceman’ to my face?’ Mycroft allows the corners of his mouth to turn up slightly at this; the idea of the army doctor offending him when it was so evident the grief was affecting his kindly nature was frankly preposterous, and it had amused Mycroft to see how many insults he could draw from the captain. He’d imagined it therapeutic for John.

‘Well, he still made me a cup of tea before he left, so he can’t be too deeply hurt now, can he?’ Sherlock retorts, wounded at the thought of Mycroft knowing exactly how angry John was. He hadn’t intended to make the intent of this meeting so clear, and he definitely wasn’t expecting Mycroft to grow sombre. He blanched visibly when Mycroft uttered a simple ‘Well, he never stopped making you tea, so don’t expect too much now, dear brother!’

It hadn’t crossed Sherlock’s mind that John had been that affected. Of course, the man was still living at Baker Street with an entire room full of Sherlock’s things, and from the looks of it he hadn’t been dating, but still in the habit of making Sherlock tea? After three years? It was almost inconceivable, the idea that John could be that committed; it just didn’t fit with the hard as nails doctor in Sherlock’s mind. He’d known John to be a kind, intelligent man; not the kind of person to hold onto the friendship of a dead detective who, for all he knew, was a complete fraud.

Sherlock glares back at Mycroft, unwilling to accept even the slightest flaw in his plans. He needs John back on fighting form; whilst he’d anticipated some form of refractory period in which John would probably not accompany him on cases, this level of emotion would set him back weeks. Sherlock wonders what on earth John must have been like in his absence; he’s been so wrong in deducing what has happened so far he almost considers asking Mycroft for help. Luckily, the stifling older brother has worked this out for himself.

‘Sherlock, surely you can’t believe the man to have moved on? Just last month he spent eight nights sleeping by your graveside.  He hasn’t spoken to Molly or Lestrade in months.’ Mycroft’s voice is soft, more cautious than Sherlock has ever heard him.

‘You promised me he would be safe. You said he’d be fine, Mycroft. That was the whole point of this,’ Sherlock waves a hand at himself, ‘this disappearance, to keep him safe!’ The last few words come out in a low hiss. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Mycroft?’

Mycroft sighs. He knows he has to get it over with, that although it’s not his secret to tell, he has to let it go. That is, after all, his job, trading in secrets; he’s just not used to the personal implications of them all. It’s hard to be affected by selling tales to foreign countries when he hardly ever leaves his beloved capital. ‘Three times, Sherlock. We had to stop John from trying to kill himself three times. He didn’t get very far; the first time he was being too closely watched by Lestrade to have done anything. He was going to shoot himself when the detective walked in and found him. I still have his Browning- you can have it back if you’d like.’ Mycroft gives his brother a sad smile. ‘The second was the first anniversary of your death; pills. We’re just lucky that the doctor, Sarah, is it? Recognised the signs and saw him take them. The third was a few months later, and we found him trying to freeze himself in the snow, up on the roof of St. Barts. Same place. He hasn’t been near the building since.’

Mycroft waits, knowing his brother won’t have seen this coming. He’s always hated breaking bad news to Sherlock; he’d much rather throw barbs at his impenetrable shell than relay news that exposes his human underbelly. He’s always been the protective older brother, getting Sherlock out of fights at primary school, out of ‘disputes’ at college, and into rehab at university. He likes to meddle behind the scenes, safe in the knowledge he will only have to bend the law; his brother is perfectly capable of protecting himself now, otherwise. His personal life though- Sherlock’s remains remarkably unguarded, as if the man himself doesn’t quite want to acknowledge its existence.

‘He hasn’t given up recently, though?’ Sherlock is quiet, though Mycroft knows him well enough to detect the note of defeat, and read between the lines to answer his question fully. ‘No. Not at all. In fact, he’s been doing better. He seems to be throwing everything back into being a medic again. One of my men went in for routine surveillance, though John saw him for a flu jab; said Dr Watson seemed almost alive.’ Mycroft’s voice is still soft, gentle. He knows if Sherlock was in his right mind he’d be accused of mollycoddling him, but the lack of any sarcastic response lets him know exactly how serious this situation is.

Mycroft knows Sherlock needs time to process what’s happened to his beloved doctor, and knows that he won’t get any peace from being in a stuffy office in Whitehall, least of all from him. ‘Since you’ve decided to stay for so long dear brother, perhaps you’d like to fetch us some tea?’

Sherlock stands up, and abruptly leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. Mycroft allows himself a small, sad smirk at knowing exactly what to say to drive the man away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, beta'ed by Beni.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


	5. Chapter 5

When John returns to the flat around five, he’s glad to see Sherlock curled up on the sofa, thoroughly wrapped up in his mind palace if the long, tented fingers are anything to go by. It allows John to evade detection, for the doctor to linger in the doorway just those few extra seconds, acclimatising. He’d half suspected he’d made the whole thing up, and it didn’t help having Sarah question his sanity, trying to keep him working a full shift as if she thought he was going home to a disappointment. Except it wouldn’t be, would it? John was simultaneously completely relieved and utterly surprised that Sherlock was even sat there at all. He’d hated himself all day for caving, leaving a mug of tea on the table for Sherlock just as he left; he’d rationalised it as passive aggressive enough when he realised by the time the detective would have woken, it would be cold.

Sarah had been nothing short of incredulous when he’d told her. She’d suspected something was up when John had come into her office for the second time in two days- she was lucky to see him twice a week normally. He’d sat opposite her and spewed out the story in such a monotonous tone she’d had no choice but to believe him. If he’d been hallucinating, one of those suspicious black cars would have picked up him before he’d even made it to the surgery, or he would have been happier, surely?

He’d delivered the bare bones of Sherlock’s return. Civilians, especially Sarah who had been involved in Sherlock’s job before, didn’t need to know about Moriarty. Ordinary people didn’t react well to news of snipers, of faked suicides; he kept it simple. Sherlock was home, faked his death somehow, John would still be coming to work, no he didn’t want time off. She’d pressed him on it- the man had weeks of paid leave stored up- but he’d remained resolute, stating simply that he’d rather be at work than at home, thanks.

Now, perched in his armchair opposite the genius, he wanted to scream, to cry; he couldn’t hate Sherlock, no matter how hard he was trying. He wanted to punch him, to make Sherlock realise quite what he’d done, but with the man looking as he did and having died to save John’s life, it was hardly fair. He wanted to cry, but he was skinny enough, weak enough as it was, without showing Sherlock that he’d completely fallen apart over him. John settled in his armchair with a cup of tea, content to sneak glances at his crazed flatmate every now and then as if to check he was still there; he tried to hide it under the pretence of reading his book, but Sherlock wasn’t paying enough attention to realise anyway.

The man himself doesn’t look to have moved since John left him this morning. A few of his bruises look a bit lighter, and the egg on his temple is slowly receding; what little John can see of the nasty gash above Sherlock’s ear is covered in a blonde, almost peachy fuzz that’s no longer matted with blood. He’s still wearing those ridiculous jeans and a hoodie that would make him look boyish if his cheekbones weren’t quite so prominent.

Eventually John starts to make a move to bed. He has another shift in the morning, his life spinning wildly on even after crashing back into Sherlock’s orbit. He decides the best plan is to continue, to let Sherlock move around him for once- he’s not going on cases, not helping with crimes, so he doesn’t need to orientate himself back towards the madman. Tomorrow he’ll finish work at two, pop into the shops and then if, if and only if, Sherlock is home, he’ll fix up some of the man’s more pressing injuries. He’s not going out of his way. Not this time.

* * *

 

Life in 221B continues this way for just under a week. Mrs Hudson is told; at first, gently by John, sat opposite her in her own kitchen, then backed up by the gradual appearance of Sherlock in the doorway. For an old lady, she’s remarkably resilient, first slapping him neatly round the cheek then trying to envelop his lanky form in a hug.

‘Oh Sherlock, look what you did! Three years you foolish man, and to leave poor John here as well!’

The tips of John’s ears go slightly pink, and he slides out of his chair in the flat, making his way back upstairs with claims of leaving the two to reacquaint themselves. He flings a weary smile at Mrs Hudson, and doesn’t look at Sherlock.

‘Mrs Hudson…’

‘Far too skinny, that’s what you are. Both of you really- that poor doctor really hasn’t been looking after himself, worse than you used to, I thought!’ she pushes Sherlock firmly into the chair opposite hers, and almost throws a tray of biscuits at him. ‘And look at those bruises, Sherlock, honestly! As if John wanted to have to look after you anymore than he already does! And I expect the media will be on the front step tomorrow, won’t they? Your insufferable brother will be abducting the postman and I’ll have to explain to Mrs Turner why I didn’t know one of my boys was alive and that homeless network will be hanging around again and oh for goodness sakes, Sherlock, eat the biscuit!’ and with that Mrs Hudson picks up a shortbread and pushes it forcefully into Sherlock’s mouth.

She flops wearily into the chair opposite Sherlock. ‘Well then, keep eating! Don’t even think about telling me where you’ve been, young man- I’ve had quite enough of those depressing stories from John!’

Sherlock can only look on in shock at his landlady. His jaw is moving almost mechanically, pumping the mush around his mouth, and his hands are placed palms up on the table, the very picture of innocence. Mrs Hudson takes his wide-eyed look as an excuse, and launches into her tirade.

‘People hanging around here at all hours of the night, a bloody nuisance! Now don’t get me wrong I have nothing against those that choose to live on the street and God bless Dr Watson for wanting to help them out but really Sherlock, couldn’t you have seen to them? As soon as you left, they were all over this place and your young man setting up cots for them like that flat is his own personal hospital! Don’t even get me started on your brother, either, how anyone could be so pompous so young is beyond me…’  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Beni.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and left kudos on this! :)


	6. Chapter 6

‘Case! John, this one is at least an eight, and if we don’t get there soon, Anderson will have contaminated everything! John, come _on_ , case!’

When John replies with a simple ‘No.’ and not even a glance in Sherlock’s direction, that’s when things start to feel a little bit off. Sherlock has picked up on the strain in their relationship, but he hadn’t thought it any more extended than a simple lack of trust and the fact that John just hadn’t had time to get used to Sherlock’s presence once again. After all, why should there be any lingering problems? Sherlock had explained his reasoning, John had patched him up- it was the same conclusion as countless other cases, albeit this one three years after the fact.

Sherlock studies John’s face intently; the man is sat properly in his armchair, newspaper grasped firmly in hand and tea balanced precariously in his lap. To be fair, until Lestrade had texted Sherlock, the detective had been quite oblivious to his presence and the tug of familiarity had gone ignored. He can see that John hadn’t slept well, that he’d scrubbed at his forehead a few too many times and missed more spots than usual when shaving, but how that added up to John’s complete disinterest he couldn’t quite fathom. Form hypotheses as to its origin, yes, but conclude and deduce? Not quite yet. John had become rather adept at masking his emotions.  Sherlock decides to go about the case as normal. John has missed cases before, after all. And it would probably be best to keep him away from Donovan and Anderson whilst they accepted his return. Yes. Definitely the safer strategy.

* * *

 

The door slams open, revealing one army doctor in full defensive mode, just for him to catch sight of Sherlock and slump.

‘Right. You. Russian. Should have expected… Russian. Right. Brilliant.’

John scrubs his hand over his chin, pulling at the afternoons light shadow and grimacing.

 ‘I take it Moriarty had operatives there, then? Or is this just something you picked up for fun? No, don’t tell me, I bet you actually learnt it when you were eight and decided to brush up on it now- just to scare me half to death when I come home to a flat that is usually empty, to find a blonde madman talking _Russian_!’ John pushes past the pacing detective, bundling the shopping bags towards the cupboard.

‘Of course, I shouldn’t expect that you’d be taking normal cases again, should I? An eight before is probably only, what, a three now? Not when you’re an international man of mystery, solving crime in foreign countries in a hundred fucking languages, oh yes, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes expands worldwide now he’s got his flat back with all his bloody experiments and casefiles! Never mind that it took Lestrade and I months to clear your name, never mind we went to trial twice,  or that we had to go through every single stupid case and all of that evidence, oh no! ‘ John throws tins of soup into the empty cupboard with some force, his posture tight and controlled with no hint of a tremor.

‘Should I at least be thankful you haven’t brought back some specimens- oh no, there are toes in the fridge again. Right. Brilliant. I’ll be upstairs.’ With a final shove of some baked beans into a cupboard Sherlock wasn’t even aware opened, John thumps away up the stairs.

Sherlock is left standing there, eyes narrowed; his expression has morphed from ‘mildly interesting’ to plain and simple interest. It was Mycroft that held the papers, Mycroft that had to sign and release him to work on cases- if he was involved, surely John and the DI couldn’t have had that hard a time with it? John must just be exaggerating- Sherlock knows he is prone to hyperbole when particularly upset or emotional. No, Mycroft must have cleared the way for them- but then again, Mycroft hadn’t known that he was alive until a few months ago, and his career is on a level  elite enough that fraudulent behaviour from his younger sibling would have been overlooked; he would have had no reason to clear Sherlock’s name before that. It is then possible that _John_ had cleared his name.

Well, his doctor always did manage to surprise him. John was an army Captain; he has strong moral principles and would have thought it wrong for Sherlock to have died falsely accused, even if Sherlock himself had told John that he was a fraud.

 

* * *

 

‘John!  Case! You can have your tea in a taxi!’

Sherlock comes crashing into the living room, strides across to John and tries to push him up and towards the door. When that doesn’t happen, he’s in the kitchen in seconds, brandishing John’s travel mug and coat in either hand.

‘Not moving, Sherlock. I have a shift in an hour, and I’d like to finish this cuppa before I go, ta.’ John states, glancing at Sherlock intermittently. Sherlock can’t read his expression; it’s as blank as he’s ever seen it, but John’s eyes are steely and determined.

‘Ah. Not just this case, though. You’re not coming on cases at all. I wouldn’t have seen it yesterday- first case nerves, always to be expected, prone to sentiment as you are, but rejecting  a second when you’re so clearly itching for the adrenaline rush of the battlefield? Not the case, then. The people perhaps? Not Lestrade, you’ve seen him since; you two cleared my name together, which must have healed some of the animosity you would have felt from his betrayal. Found that out from my brother, irritating sod that he is, but can’t be helped. Anderson? Donovan? No guarantee they’ll be there, which leaves me. Oh.  You don’t want to come on cases because of me. Interesting.’

John stands up, grabs his coat and shrugs it on. ‘Yes. Fascinating, isn’t it, that I don’t want to jump back into being Sherlock’s little sidekick, left behind at the kerb like some unwanted puppy. Intriguing, that I’m going to my own job, when I could be trailing along after you. Best I be off then, get out of your bloody orbit while I still can.’

‘Boys? That lovely detective inspector is here to see you!’ Mrs Hudson totters in, smiling as she takes John’s tea from his hand. ‘You’ll be off soon, I’ll put your mug in the sink for you just this once Doctor Watson, not your housekeeper!’ Greg appears behind her, looking thoroughly downtrodden and soggy.

‘Alright chaps, thought I’d come and collect you for this one- s’bit grisly, it’d probably do just to walk you through what’s happened before the genius gets his hands on the scene.’ Greg spoke gruffly, his eyes widening as John brushed past him. ‘Hey, what’s up with him?’

‘He’s got work, apparently.’ Sherlock gestured wildly with his hands, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. ‘Why he thinks working in that insipid little clinic will be of any use, I don’t know. All he ever diagnoses is flu, which he can’t treat anyway. Honestly, an army doctor and all he settles for is that predictable hell-hole. It’s hateful!’ Sherlock whirled away, rushing down the stairs in a few elegant steps, unlike Lestrade who clomped along behind him.

‘Well, you can’t blame him really, can you? Man’s seen more of Scotland Yard than I have, these past couple of years. When he was working on your case we used to send the junior agents down to drag him out for coffee and a doughnut, sort of a baptism of fire for them as he’d never come along willingly. Used to have a betting pool on to see who could make him snap into Captain mode the quickest.’ The DI grinned at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade in disbelief, his face scrunched up unattractively. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'ed- please let me know if you spot any mistakes! Sorry about the long wait between chapters.


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